


Illogical, Dead and Walking

by toesohnoes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 12:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toesohnoes/pseuds/toesohnoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the dead start walking, Sherlock is determined to find the logical explanation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illogical, Dead and Walking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jaune_Chat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune_Chat/gifts).



"No, Sherlock," John insists, taking hold of him by the shoulders and attempting to tug him in the opposite direction of the dead.

Moving Sherlock when he doesn't want to be moved is, however, a very difficult thing to do.

"I just need a sample," Sherlock insists. "A finger would do."

"We are _not_ collecting a sample from a zombie horde," John tells him. He tries tugging him a little bit harder, but Sherlock is persistently immobile.

"There's only five of them," Sherlock observes. "Hardly what I'd call a 'horde'. I've seen you take on many more than that before."

John clenches his jaw and glances between them and the shuffling, groaning bodies that are coming towards them. One of the corpses is missing an arm. She doesn't appear to notice.

"I haven't stayed alive this long by picking fights. Come on. This is stupid."

"Persistently running away is stupid," Sherlock counters. "If we do the same thing every single time, nothing will ever change. Think of what I could do with a cell sample."

"That's part of what I'm worried about," John mutters.

Before he can make any further attempts at talking some sense into Sherlock, Sherlock slips out of his grasp and starts strolling towards the dead. Under the circumstances, John has no choice but to follow along and hope for the best.

*

John still remembers Day One.

Waking up in the flat and slouching downstairs, he'd had tea brewing in the pot by the time Sherlock came hurtling into the kitchen, his eyes ablaze in the way that usually meant a new mystery.

"Isn't it a bit early for all this?" he had asked, still struggling to wake up.

"Look outside, John," Sherlock had said, taking him by the shoulders and leading him to the window.

Outside, there had been nothing but death and burning buildings.

The end had begun.

*

It turns out that a few dozen dead bodies are all it takes to bring the world to a crunching stop. Communication networks fail and soon the television networks cease broadcasting. Even the world service limits itself to an endless repeated program of advice: stay indoors, stay safe, the military will save you.

John hasn't seen a soldier on the street since the earliest days.

He stays in Sherlock's shadow because, for all the danger, there is nowhere else he would rather be.

"That was stupid," he snaps as he trails at Sherlock's side.

Sherlock's eyes are bright as he considers the finger he has stored in a jar. It's still twitching, its nail dragging along the glass in a desperate hunt for escape. Just looking at it is enough to make John feel ill. "It worked," Sherlock reminds him.

"Barely. You nearly got killed."

Sherlock looks away from his catch to fix John with a steady smirk. "I knew you'd have my back," he says, tossing the jar once in the air before stashing it in his pocket. "What else would I keep you around for?"

John rolls his eyes and clenches his teeth and reminds himself that, yes, there is a reason that he's friends with Sherlock. He can't always remember said reasons, but he's sure that they exist.

"What do we with it now, then?" John asks.

Sherlock's eyes gleam dangerously.

*

Naturally, Mycroft shows no signs of being affected by the apocalypse. His black car shows up outside their flat in London, as silent as the wind itself. "Join me, won't you?" he asks, leaning out of the open door.

John glances to Sherlock, whose face is trapped in a sneer. "We could use his help," John reminds him. "Y'know... With the _finger_."

"He's likely the one that started this whole mess in the first place."

"Must you be so over-dramatic?" Mycroft sighs in disapproval. "There is a small cluster of the dead several blocks behind us. They're likely to make it over here within two hours. Please. Come with me."

If they stayed indoors and didn't make a sound, there is a high chance that the dead would never find them. To be perfectly honest, John doesn't feel like risking it.

"In we go, Sherlock," he says, grabbing hold of Sherlock's wrist and dragging him into the heat of the car. Sherlock doesn't give quite as much resistance as John had expected, so he soon finds himself sandwiched between the two Holmes brothers. Mycroft's car is well-heated and with a tap to the partitioning window the driver moves on.

Without saying a word, Mycroft smiles in contentment.

Sherlock continues to scowl.

*

Mycroft transports them through the city and out to the countryside, onwards and onwards, until they come to a run-down building that claims to be the government's only remaining functional science centre. "You'll have access to anything you require here. Ask and it is yours."

"I had access to everything I required when I was in London," Sherlock said. "Although I was of course missing the stench of the countryside."

Mycroft answers with a sullen smile, before he waves them into the laboratories. The place has all the sound of an anthill: endless industry carried out in silence. Heads down, frowns in place, John watches as the employees rush backwards and forwards. He doubts he would ever be able to make sense of what is going on here.

With his finger in a jar in his hand, Sherlock strides forward to take possession of one of the benches under Mycroft's watchful eye. "Come on, John," Sherlock instructs, like a master calling to his dog. "If we're going to be here, we might as well get some use out of the place."

John dodges around people who won't meet his gaze as he follows after Sherlock, telling himself over and over again: we're going to fix this. Sherlock can fix this.

*

"More fingers, John, I need more fingers!"

"I'm not Igor."

"Fingers!"

*

It feels as if time stops once they have been swallowed by the centre. Mycroft comes and goes, offering nothing more than an enigmatic smile if John ever asks where he's been: "The world doesn't end when the dead walk," Mycroft assures him, but that's all he ever gets.

The collected fingers twitch helplessly on the table.

"I should have solved this by now," Sherlock says, staring down the microscope as if his mere attention ought to be enough to solve the mystery. "It doesn't make sense."

"They're zombies," John says as he leans against the bench by his side. "I'm not sure if it's supposed to make sense."

"There's nothing keeping them alive."

"That would be why they're _dead_."

"So how are they moving? Why are they moving? It's completely illogical."

John closes his eyes, because he can't go through this again. Trying to convince Sherlock to believe in the unbelievable makes him feel as if he is running around in circles. "I can't explain it," he admits.

Sherlock glances up from the microscope. He looks as if John has just spat on the floor between them.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, John has nothing more to say.

*

They share a bedroom. Space is precious in security, and they had seemed to tumble into each other's pockets without realising how it happened.

That's why Sherlock is able to stride in easily when John is trying to pack.

Sherlock's sharp eyes flick between the bag on the bed and the clothes in John's hands, before he says, "You're leaving."

John still manages to smile. "The world's number one consulting detective," he announces. "Bravo."

"You won't last long out there," Sherlock says. He closes the door behind himself and steps forward, right into John's space. "Three days, maybe. Perhaps a few more. They're out there, and they're hungry."

John _knows_. He has gone above ground and watched from the windows: there seem to be more and more of the dead walking each day. Their faces are stretched and torn with decay and starvation. It makes his throat hurt when he looks at them.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asks quietly. "I can't stay here and watch everyone ripping themselves apart looking for a cause - for a _cure_. There isn't one. We're not going to fix this."

"We have to try," Sherlock insists. "What's the alternative?"

"Since when are you this optimistic?"

"I need you to stay," Sherlock says, without bothering to answer John's question. "I need you _here_."

"You need someone to bring you dead fingers when you ask for them. Ask your brother. He'll find someone for you."

"John," Sherlock snaps. In the sudden silence following the name, they scowl at each other as if telepathy might spring to life and finish the conversation for them. It doesn't work. Nothing does, these days.

Before John can say a word to restart the argument, Sherlock sweeps forward. For a moment, startled, John thinks that Sherlock is trying to head-butt him - before he feels the dry push of his lips, the insistent clash of his teeth. Far from elegant, it feels like an attack, but as Sherlock grips hold of him and groans like a wounded animal, John is unable to respond.

Pulling backwards as if rescuing himself from a trap, Sherlock stares at him with night-black eyes. "Stay," Sherlock says. "I need you here."

John is forgetting how to argue with him.

*

They don't mention his packed bag ever again.

The dead grow.

The living dwindle.

The world goes on.


End file.
